Page 131 of Built to Fall
His grin is pure sin and silk. “Come here,” he says, like I haven’t already handed him every inch of me. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
“Then stop,” I counter quickly. “There’s no use in pretending anymore.”
And when he kisses me, it’s nothing like I expected and everything I needed. It’s soft, and slow, andperfect. Like maybe this isn’t a beginning or an end, but some moment suspended in the in-between. The before and after. The storm and the stillness.
I hope I never come down from it.
“Can we go to your room?” I ask, panting as I pull away.
His hands are tightly grasping my hips, which makes it easy for him to lift me out of the barstool, placing my feet on the ground before moving his hands to my shoulders. “We can do whatever you want,” he says, pivoting my body and guiding me toward his bedroom.
A chill runs up my spine, and despite all the nerves coursing through me, a tiny ounce of hope begins to bloom in my chest.
The room is dim, the kind of quiet that makes everything else louder. My breathing, the blood rushing in my ears, and the inhale he takes as I stop inside the doorway.
“This okay?” he asks behind me. Always checking. Always careful. He knows what I went through with Gage.
“Yeah.” But it comes out too soft, too uneven. So I try again, steadier this time. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Grant walks past me and flicks on the small lamp on his nightstand, casting the room in a low, warm glow. The light hitsthe edges of his cheekbones, the line of his throat, and the veins on the backs of his hands.
The sight of him nearly undoes me.
He turns to face me and starts to say something, but I cut him off by walking forward and wrapping my fingers in the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift it slowly. Too slowly, maybe. I need him to see that I’m not rushing. That I’m choosing this.
I toss it to the side, then meet his eyes.
There’s a pause. A long one. And then he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since the minute I walked in.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You can still change your mind,” he then whispers. “You always can.”
I shake my head. “Don’t make me beg, Grant.”
His mouth twitches like he’s caught between a grin and a groan. “Fuck. Okay.”
Grant kisses me again, but this time it’s all heat. His hands move up, grazing the sides of my ribcage, like he’s memorizing the terrain of someone he knows he won’t be allowed to keep.
And maybe that’s what makes it feel so good. Maybe it’s the impermanence of it that makes it breathtaking, hair-raising, and perfect all at the same time.
Maybe this is the appeal behind casual sex. Maybe I’ll finally understand it.
I tangle my fingers in his shirt and pull at it blindly. “Take it off,” I mumble against his mouth.
He obliges, and when his shirt hits the floor, I finally see him properly.
And I want to cry.
Not because he’s beautiful, even though he is. But because he’s here. Because I’m here. Because this version of me—the girl brave enough to ask for what she wants—feels familiar but is still a stranger in my skin, andsomehowhe still sees me.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, brushing his nose against mine.
“I know.”
His hand comes up, fingers skimming under my shirt, roaming around my abdomen before I lift my arms, giving him silent permission to lift it over my head. He does.
Then his fingers skim under the straps of my bra. “Can I?”
I say, “Please,” and he reaches behind me with easy familiarity but doesn’t rush it. He watches my face as the strap slips down my shoulder, as if he’s waiting to see if I’ll break. I don’t.
